Not Like This
by shadowhuntingdauntlessdemigod
Summary: Coda to 14x18, spoilers, heavy angst, and brother hugs. In the face of yet another loss, Dean tries, and slowly fails, to not fall apart along with it. Sam, of course, is there to collect both their pieces. He's seen his brother in a lot of bad and torn-up emotional states, but not like this. Never like this.


_This is quite possible the most angst-filled piece I have ever written, so if you haven't seen 14x18 or don't want to be spoiled, I suggest you turn back now. I wrote this before 14x19 aired, so it's a bit different from the canon, but buckle up for some emotional pain and brother hugs (because come on they needed one) and despite the sadness I hope you enjoy!_

_I don't own the show and am pretty terrified for the last actual season finale/cliffhanger we'll ever have._

* * *

In the end, it's Dean that carries their mother's body back to the Impala.

He's not sure how long they sit like that, him wrapped around Mary and Sam wrapped around the both of them. He's not sure how minutes he waited for a pulse and how many minutes more he spent trying and failing to accept that there wasn't one. But it's long enough for his knees to pop and crack when he stands with the added weight. Not that he notices the physical pains, not when his heart is so heavy.

Sam gives him space as he adjusts and cradles his mom closer to his chest, as if just being careful with her will change anything. He doesn't really know what Jack brought back, but his mind isn't anywhere near able to figure that out. He can get her back to the bunker, they can find out what information Cas got, so long as he tells them this time, and maybe, just maybe, they'll fix it. Somehow. Like they always do.

They walk back in complete silence to where Jack messed with Baby's engine. Dean stands stock still, arms shaking at the weight his soul is bearing, as Sam gets a blanket from the trunk and lays it down in the back seat. It takes some maneuvering, but Dean manages to get Mary across the bench seat.

He won't say she looks like she's sleeping. He's seen death enough times to know that it looks different. It only tricks you into believing that it's peaceful.

Sam doesn't meet his eyes when Dean closes the back door of the Impala and squeezes his hand against the roof. Dean doesn't meet his brother's when he passes him and goes to the driver's seat.

He drives carefully away from the cabin and the blast zone, internally wincing at every bump in the dirt road. As it evens out and turns into asphalt, his mind starts wandering.

What was the last thing he ever said to her? Probably about Sam, right? All those hours ago with no sleep in-between. Did Jack tell her that Sam was alright before he…? Did she die not knowing if her son was alive or not?

His fingers tighten against the steering wheel, making an audible noise as his knuckles turn white. Sam turns ever so slightly towards him. He's probably thinking the same thing. But neither say anything, not now, not until they actually figure this out. Not until they find a way to deal with the fact that their resurrected mother's body is in the backseat of the car her recently, shortly returned, and long-dead husband had once owned.

* * *

They go over it with Cas. Or more, Sam does. They put Mary's body on a pyre. They light it. And they watch her turn to ash. Again.

After there's nothing left, Dean hands the keys to Sam for him to take the Impala the short way back to the bunker. His brother looks at him worriedly, but Dean's stuck in his numb state and content to stay there for the time being. It means he's not processing, but there's only so much he can go through in a day.

Sam and Cas and the Impala drive ahead as Dean puts his hands in his pockets and walks. His breath comes out in puffs in front of him, like smoke in the air from his heart which may as well be burning along with another family member.

He doesn't really know how he gets back to the bunker. His legs know the way and carry him in through the garage and down the winding corridors. He doesn't see Cas, and he's alright with that, for now at least. He'll apologize, maybe, try to fix it, but not today.

Sam he finds fairly easily, sitting at the table in the library, staring at the initials carved into the table with tears in his eyes that Dean can see from across the room. And Dean's still numb, but that doesn't mean he doesn't care or can't find a way to try and help. He hasn't let himself cry, not yet. But he can feel it building in his chest, and doesn't quite know that if he starts he'll be able to stop. Maybe whiskey and avoidance will push it down.

But brother duties have to come first.

He doesn't do much, Sam wouldn't expect him to. It's not about fixing things. It's about for the moment letting Sam know that he's there. He walks up behind him and puts his hand on Sam's shoulder and squeezes ever so lightly. It's the same thing Sam did when they were holding mom's body next to the blast site.

The smallest amount of support that they can dole out at the moment, and it doesn't go unappreciated.

Sam looks up to him, tears still in his eyes, and quickly trains them back on the table. Dean claps his shoulder and heads towards the kitchen. They both need space. The talking will come later, he's sure, once the shock has passed.

The pictures are still on the kitchen table from where Sam was last looking at them. And Dean finds that he can't, he just can't.

They have new memories of Mary, but not really any pictures, not printed at least. One, maybe two, but that's it. It's almost as if, in their memory box, she never came back at all.

That's enough for Dean to grab a bottle of whiskey from the kitchen and retreat to his room without another thought.

He won't drink enough to pass out, he wouldn't be able to sleep anyways, but enough to dull his already numb senses. Enough to fade out the edges of the memory of his mother's lifeless body in his arms.

Despite his best efforts, the train in his mind keeps running. Next stop: guilt and self-blame and destruction. So he heads out of the bunker before he throws something at the walls.

The night air is frigid, and vaguely he remembers that it's sometime past midnight, not like he was keeping track though. Again, his legs move seemingly without his consent until he finds himself back in the small clearing with a black shape in the center.

If it were lighter out and he looked close enough, he may have been able to see pieces of charred cloth sticking out amongst the blackened tree branches. The mere thought of it causes a roll in his stomach.

She's gone, again, in a fiery inferno, just like before. He couldn't do anything to save her.

Not when he went back in time to warn them, not when she got dragged into the apocalypse world, and not from the kid they had begun to consider their family. Between the Brits and the other world and going off with Bobby, he begins to realize how little time they actually got with her as a family. It was weird and they struggled, but it mattered and he cared about it. And now his dream since he was four years old is in a pile of ash at his feet.

There's a stump off to the edge of the clearing where they had begun cutting down trees. He sits on the very edge of it and rubs his hands together, idly wondering if they'll be sore in the morning or if the cold will steal that feeling from him too.

He didn't say anything when they put her on the pyre. He didn't say anything when it went up or burned out. And he doesn't have anything to say now. Well, he does, but the words are stuck in his chest underneath the heart that's shattered into his lungs and is taking away his ability to breathe.

A year ago, that's about all it's been, when Cas died and she got dragged to the apocalypse world, it was different. He shouted his demands to God himself that he fix what he had allowed to happen in his absence. A lot of good that did. There was numbness, but anger too.

Now, just such a short time after those devastating losses, even though they both returned, he's just numb.

It's not right.

It's never right, but this time more than most. They had been in a good place and were working through to make the bad better. They were figuring it out. But to have it end like this? To have her disintegrated because of an accident? He had called her and fully expected to see her again and assure her that Sam was alright. And now he'll never get the chance. Why?

Somewhere around the third repetition he notices the tightness in his chest becoming physical as he tries to get in air that's been stolen from the clearing. "Why?" he finally voices, and tilts his head up to the sky in pure desperation, as if Chuck will actually come down and give him a decent answer. As if the angels will assure him that it wasn't natural, her being back where she didn't belong in the first place, and now she's happy with her husband. As if anybody, anywhere, can give him a good reason as to why his and Sam's only win in recent years was ripped from their grasp once again.

"Why?!"

This time it's louder and echoes in the empty space around him, but there's no one present to hear.

Tears begin to spill over onto his cheeks, hot against the cold air, and he's surprised they don't freeze on contact. When he gets no answer from the heavens, which he should be used to by now, he lowers his head to his hands and presses his palms to his forehead as if it will calm his racing mind and fit together the pieces of his damaged heart.

In the face of yet another loss in the list that must be a mile long, Dean tries, and slowly fails, to not fall apart along with it.

* * *

Sam spends a few hours in the library, just sitting and staring and reminiscing. Dean comes in somewhere during that time, ever the protector, and tries to assure him in the smallest way that things will be alright. But they won't be, they both know that.

And Sam knows Dean's struggling already, internalizing it to a point where it must be choking him. Sam's hurting too, but in a different way, and he also knows that Dean's hurt goes much deeper, strikes a chord somewhere in his brother's soul that Sam isn't sure he himself possesses when it comes to Mary.

He also knows that Dean won't talk about it, not right away, but he'll need to, and Sam will probably have to force him to if it comes down to that or Dean drowning himself in it.

Sam eventually gets up from the initials on the table, checks the kitchen, and passes by Dean's room to find the door uncharacteristically closed. He doesn't know where Cas went off to, and at the moment, he's alright with it. They're all to blame, he knows it, but Dean's words are still fresh in his mind.

Time. They all just need some time.

So he goes to his room, leaves the door cracked open, sits, and thinks as the weight of the day's events fall onto his shoulders.

A little past midnight he hears Dean's door open. There are determined boot steps out, but none back in. Dean needs space too, and Sam's going to give him some until it's no longer possible. But when half an hour passes and Dean hasn't come back yet, Sam wipes the tear tracks from his face and goes out in search of his brother.

He can't lose another family member. He won't. They lost two today, no matter what Dean may say.

A walk around the bunker and the Impala turns both up empty, and it takes Sam only a second to realize where Dean must have gone. He breaks into a run as soon as he reaches the bunker's exit, the cold air making him immediately wish he had shrugged on another jacket. He doubts Dean did either.

It only takes him a few minutes before the clearing comes into view and just the sight of the black pile against the pale trees has Sam's jaw clenching. But it's nothing compared to the shape he sees at the other end of the clearing, perched on a tree stump.

"Dean!" he shouts as he runs over. It's partially so his brother can muster his courage and put up a front if he wants, partially so Sam can see if Dean is actually responsive and not completely numb like he was earlier. He'd prefer the former, even if it means that emotionally they'd make no progress.

Sam's heart falls as he finds it's the latter and slows to a halt a few steps from his brother. Dean's elbows are resting on his knees and his head is being held tightly in his hands. Even from a short distance, he can hear Dean's uneven breaths that hitch ever so slightly as he tries to get them under control.

Instantly the roles are reversed. Sam takes a two steps forward and crouches in front of Dean. It's not enough to invade his space, but it's enough so that he can put a hand on his shoulder, returning the small gesture Dean had paid him earlier. "Dean?" It's quiet, a gauge of just how much Dean's fallen apart in the span of a few hours.

Sam had expected cracks to form early on, had expected the numbness and being closed off and the drinking and the not dealing, that he's all seen before. And suck or not, he knows how to deal with it.

What he's not prepared for is how Dean slowly raises his head but keeps his hands together in front of him, working and kneading together. He's not prepared for the redness he sees in his brother's eyes, or the tears that reflect some small amount of moonlight back at him. He's not prepared for the utter hopelessness.

But he should be. After Michael, after Jack, and now this? It's all been piling up, and it just took their mother's death for him to finally break.

"Sammy?" A slight question, like he can't believe he's actually out here trying to pull him up off a ledge he'd otherwise careen down.

"Hey," Sam tries to smile, like Dean so often does when things get bad, just to put Sam at ease. He did it just a day ago. When he almost lost Sam. Again. Sam can still see Dean's worried smile through his swimming vision as Dean tried to keep him awake. "What are you doing?"

He knows full well what Dean's doing, or at least he thinks he does. But getting a response of some sort would be good.

"I…" Dean trails off. His eyes leave Sam's to gaze at the remnants of the burned pile just beyond Sam's shoulder. His mouth works like he tries to explain, but the words are stuck, and he physically winces.

Sam's seen his brother in a lot of situations in a lot of emotional states, but not like this. Never like this.

He knows, more or less, how to deal with Dean when they lose someone, they've had plenty of experience. He can manage Dean's numbness, how he closes himself off, how he drinks more, how it comes out in random bursts of anger. And he knows to be a steady support system behind him so when the wall does crack, Dean knows that someone will be there to pick up the pieces. Sam knows how to help that. It's been ingrained in him over the decades.

He knew less how to help Dean after everything happened with Michael, but after some personal experience, the empathy was there, and that was what he projected first. But Michael was challenging for a variety of reasons, and he still doubts if Dean ever really dealt with it after the fact.

But it's this, seeing him next to their mother's charred funeral pyre, his walls burned down with it, completely vulnerable and numb and raw at the same time, that Sam doesn't quite know how to handle.

Somewhere in the back of his mind he realizes that it's because things have never been _this _bad. Sure, they've been terrible, end of the world awful, but never having a resurrected mother disintegrated by the person they had come to consider their child.

"Coming out here without a jacket on?" It's the first thing Dean would fuss over if the situation were reversed to try and get Sam's attention away from whatever was tearing him up inside.

But it doesn't work. Dean stays locked in whatever he's trying to get out, eyes welling, and Sam tightens his grip on his brother's shoulder.

When it finally comes out, however small it may be, the remnants of Sam's emotional stability get ground to ash.

"I…I can't."

He purses his lips after he says it and his eyes keep darting between Sam and what was left of their family and he shakes his head.

Sam knows there's a multitude of things that Dean could mean, or clarifying questions he could ask, but he doesn't need to read any more into it. He gets the gist.

His shifts his position on the ground ever so slightly and leans in, tugging Dean into a hug. It's a bit awkward, given the tree stump, but in no time at all Dean's arms are wound tightly around his back. His hands fist into Sam's flannel while Sam's own are spread widely across Dean's back, as if the extra solid comfort could piece them both back together again.

Whatever semblance of control Dean had been hanging onto crumbles in his brother's arms. It crumbles in the form of choked sobs, in shoulders that shake, in tightness throughout his whole body that Sam's sure will cause him aches in the coming days. It crumbles in the way that Dean's big-brother-strong-emotional-front facade never quite has, and though there are silent tears making their way down Sam's cheeks as well, he does his best to keep himself in check.

There have to be some pieces left to fit together, after all, even if the picture will never be the same.

"I can't," Dean repeats in a broken tone and makes no movement away from their current position. Neither does Sam.

And he could say it's okay. He could say they'll get through it, like they always do.

But he knows it's not. And Dean knows it's not. And while he's optimistic that they'll muddle through, he doesn't have a game plan as to how they should even start.

"I know," he whispers, because it's the only thing that's close enough to the truth. Maybe this, sitting and breaking down, is enough of a starting point. "I know."

His arms shift just a bit tighter, and maybe it's just their positioning, but Dean seems smaller then their three or so inch difference should allow for. Gradually the wracked breaths begin to ease, but they still hitch in and out. Dean's shoulders still shake. He still doesn't let go, and neither will Sam, not for the world, which as of earlier that day had diminished significantly.

He used to wonder, years ago, when things got bad, if they'd end the way they started, with just the two of them doing what they did best after the world had done its best to end itself.

Sam had figured that one way or another, it was likely to happen.

But he never figured it would turn out like this.

Not like this.


End file.
